


Chameleon

by lovemesomefluff



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Injuries, POV Third Person, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:21:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25343872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovemesomefluff/pseuds/lovemesomefluff
Summary: Geralt and Jaskier set out on yet another little quest, resigned to simply ridding a small village of its tormentor. What they find, however, is not at all what they were expecting.
Relationships: Jaskier | Dandelion/Reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 32





	Chameleon

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all! This is my first time ever posting here, so I'm super sorry if it all goes wrong.... I suppose it's also my first time writing a fic? But I've written short stories before, English lit. assignments and the like, so it shouldn't be too much of a disaster.  
> Anyway, this is just a small idea I had and I wanted to write it, so I hope it's to your liking! There isn't any existing relationship between Reader and Jaskier yet, but there's certainly the promise of one! Unfortunately, I'm a bit of a fickle writer and have absolutely no idea when I'll post another story, so I welcome any and all requests, anything that may boost my inspiration. Comments are super welcome!  
> That should be all, so enjoy the story and thanks for reading!

“Remind me again why I follow you into these places?” Jaskier’s whingeing only increased in octave and occurrence the further he followed Geralt of Rivia into the forest. It was a dark, claustrophobic place, and the twisted canopy overhead left no room for any sunlight to filter down to the leaf-strewn ground below. The leaves were dead and brittle, of course, as much of the rest of the woodland seemed to be. It was the kind of place you would expect poets and adventurers to draw their inspiration from when recounting a treacherous journey through an evil forest, where witches and werewolves and the sort would hide, stalking unsuspecting travellers through the shadows. The cowering bard made sure to recite his fearful musings to his gruff companion, who only glared in return, yellow eyes piercing through the suffocating gloom. Their intensity would rival the moon, or perhaps even the sun, if either were visible at that moment.

“Shut up, Jaskier.” Geralt had grown more and more impatient as he and his friend – though he was currently seriously reconsidering that title – followed the directions some snivelling villagers had provided, apparently having been sent on a search for some hidden demon that had been terrorising the town, appearing and reappearing at will to scare and traumatise. The paying farmers claimed to have struck the beast already, but fear led them to the monster-slayer. Unfortunately, this monster-slayer found it extremely difficult to concentrate on tracking the beast over Jaskier’s incessant need to fill the stale and unwelcoming air with conversation. The Witcher didn’t let it flow, but of course he never did, thus his cheerful bard continued to invade the silence with useless stories and drivel. Of course, said bard was not so cheerful now, and his meaningless ramblings had been replaced by paranoid observations: a twig snapping here, a footstep there. Geralt, of course, noticed none of this, because none of it was real. He reminded himself never to take Jaskier into a “dark and bloody creepy forest”, as he had agitatedly dubbed it, again.

After a short while of travelling deeper into the gnarled woods, Geralt and Jaskier were surprised to a halt. They had been growing nearer to where the villagers had suspected the monster’s ‘lair’ was, and were thusly expecting to be confronted with aggressive snarls and gleaming, bared teeth. What they found, however – or, rather, heard – was a whimper, almost carried away by the breeze. The pair came to a dead halt, Geralt’s hand creeping to the hilt of his blade and Jaskier’s creeping to clutch at the shoulder of his companion. They stood and listened, listened for what felt like hours but was likely only seconds, before they heard the sound again.

It was a pitiful thing, really, choked and frightened. The sort of thing you would expect from a cornered baby animal whose mother had left it to fend for itself, where it soon discovered the cruelty of the world it was expected to grow up in and was betrayed over and over by the unforgiving elements, environments, and bigger, slightly less-scared creatures it was forced to live with. This, of course, may be taking the comparison a tad too far, but the picture should have been clear: the sound emanated fear, betrayal, and that last shred of defiance that any being grasps for when they realise they are surely staring into the cruel, shrouded face of Death.

Only, Death didn’t step forward. It was not Death who, against his mind screaming at him to stop, to hide behind his bigger, meaner-looking friend, slowly pushed through the piercing foliage in pursuit of whatever made such a scared little noise. For the forest would not feel just that bit more forgiving in the presence of Death. The plants would not grow healthier, the clearing would not grow brighter, if it was Death who approached. No, instead it was someone in very close resemblance to the sun – more so than the Witcher’s piercing eyes, which followed his friend so very closely, daring anything to jump out in attack. It was someone who’s smile was so gentle and reassuring that it could quell the fear of anyone and anything in the cold grasp of Death itself, who this most definitely was not. It was someone who radiated warmth and peace and comfort, like a flower. A dandelion, perhaps.

“Hello?” His voice called to the void ahead, so soft, flowing slowly and soothingly through the thick atmosphere in the very same way honey would down a red and angry throat. “Are you alright?”

And who could possibly feel afraid in such a presence? Certainly not the source of the aforementioned sound, whose whimpers no longer seeped fear and distress, but rather made clear the pain that was always underlying the terror, made known only now that it felt curiously safe.

Geralt, observant as ever, became instantly aware of the change in tone and moved his hand slowly away from the sheathed glint of steel, moving instead to cross over to his other side, becoming wrapped in the arm there. He stood and observed, curious and trusting of his friend to handle the situation, as comfort was never really his forte.

The pitiful sounds, once so primal and animalistic, so frantic for escape, had been reduced to gentle sobs. Closer to weeping, in fact. And it was at that very moment that Jaskier realised it was a person. A scared, hurt girl, who had just been faced with the terrifying implication that she was to be run through by the sword of Geralt of bloody Rivia. The bard let out a little huff of distress, frustrated that he could not even see the person who so clearly needed help and reassurance.

“Could you come out?” He tried gently, voice low as he could muster and hands lowered in what he hoped was a non-threatening pose, “I promise we won’t hurt you; we just want to help.”

To Geralt’s surprise, who had scoffed at the idea of anything revealing itself so quickly and easily when it so clearly felt threatened, the ground just ahead shifted and changed. To Jaskier’s surprise, who still wasn’t completely convinced he wasn’t just talking to no-one, the fallen twigs and acorns just in front of him vanished from his sight. Dusted leaves and browning foliage morphed into pale skin, perhaps a little too pale, even for the palest of people of its complexion. Drooping grass and swirling patterns in the dirt changed into tangled hair, blonde and brown and red and black all at once. And two shining droplets of dew were in fact not dew at all, but instead two sparkling eyes, a little too glossed-over to be healthy. And suddenly, where there was once nothing but brambles and bracken, a frightened young woman lay, clutching weakly at her side as red spilled in a striking contrast against the dull greys and browns of the forest.

“A Chamaeleon.” Geralt murmured in surprise, but Jaskier simply stared – because he, for once, found himself quite speechless. His eyes bulged and his jaw hung and he stood there, speechless.

The silence could not last forever, though, for it never does. The strange, soundless exchange between the bard and the trembling girl is broken when her eyes droop, just a little, and Jaskier remembers himself. Suddenly he’s at her side, replacing her shaky hand with his own and murmuring gentle reassurances, his eyes holding a sure promise of safety. Because he is sure; he trusts that his friend can help her. Which, of course, Geralt gets to doing. And as he quickly searches through Roach’s – his trusty steed, if ever there was one – saddle-bags, Jaskier does his best to keep the girl conscious. He does this, of course, in the only way he knows how.

He sings.

Geralt is about to huff, because he’s quite had enough of the bard and his tunes for one day, until he sees the effect it has on the frightened little Chamaeleon. She’s almost in a trance, clutching weakly at the smiling man’s shirt and slowly drawing her lips upward, mimicking his expression. She hears the repetition in the melody, predicts the lilts in the tone, and tentatively starts to hum along. It’s a weak, broken little sound, but infinitely better than the noises she was making before. Because the noises she made before were afraid, desperate, lonely – but when she hums, scratchy and cracked as it may be, it is a noise of hope. She has so quickly come to trust the man holding her, the man with the dazzling smile and the slight shimmer of tears in his eyes, the man with the voice like home. And when he shakes her again, when she slips a little further, she gives her name.

Her voice is so delicate, so fragile and quiet, but he hears it and repeats it in that voice. And, just as the gruff man with the gentle soul approaches with potions and bandages, she lets her eyes finally slip closed. She can hear the bard calling her name, his tone a little more frantic than before, but keeps her eyes closed against the world. She knows she will wake up, and she knows that, whoever these people are – whoever that man is, with the voice like honey and the presence of a dandelion – they will take care of her, and she will wake to a whole new world of adventure.


End file.
